


Upon This Rock

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gratuitous use of Biblical quotes, M/M, Much talk of religion, Slow Burn, post-Seine AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-21 16:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6058426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From summer to autumn to winter, Valjean tries to save Javert the only way he knows a man can be saved; with faith and trust in something stronger than himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 Corinthians 3.7

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Vana, who I guess actually beta'd this thing, and held my hand the whole time I was complaining it would never get done.

The recovery had come in increments so small that it was no surprise he had not noticed. 

The Javert he had pulled from the river, fever ridden and weak as a babe, had been the easiest patient, despite the fear that he would not last from one day to the next. That was the Javert who mumbled and cursed in his sickness, who had terrifying moments of lucidity when he would fix his stare upon Valjean and promise to have him in chains by the end of the day. That was the Javert who sobbed for the mother that Valjean hadn’t even allowed himself to consider had existed once upon a time.

He had not slept the first week, no more than an hour here and there, drawn to the bedside of a man who had been his life’s constant companion, but about whom he knew virtually nothing. He did all the doctor recommended – cooling cloths, water to drink on the hour, a thin broth if he could force Javert to take it. He did all that Toussaint told him, too, on her twice weekly visits to the house – the herbs and concoctions that the doctor would have been horrified at. He prayed too, his own silent solution, and as he folded his hands at Javert’s side, he asked not only for God to spare him, but also to help him understand why he would even dare to ask for such a thing.

After that week, that never ending week, Javert woke from his fever. Valjean was at his post, buried in a book, and it was only when he looked up and found Javert’s dark eyes watching him did he realise the man was conscious. He started and dropped the book, but Javert did not look away or even react. For a terrible second, Valjean thought him catatonic, but then he met the eyes and saw the same sharp gaze he used to quake under. Indeed, Javert looked for all the world like he had a question waiting in that unsmiling mouth, a question just about to be asked. If he did, it did not come, not for a long time. June had turned to July, almost indeed to the heady heat of August, before Javert spoke a word.

Valjean learned to read him instead, to understand that the twitch of the lips was a sullen kind of thanks, the furrow of the brow meant to leave well alone or whatever Javert was holding would hit the wall. Valjean refused to allow the hours to pass in silence, and spoke of whatever he could conjure up, a running commentary of their day, half remembered stories, anything to get a reaction from the man in his spare room, even if it was just an irritated set of the jaw. 

Javert, for his part, slept often, ate little and could hardly be persuaded to take even a book or a newspaper for his entertainment. After a week or two, he was well enough to relocate to the parlour for a few hours, as long as Valjean was there for him to lean on, and to wrap a blanket around his shoulders when he was settled in the chair by the fire. Valjean left him then, escaped the black oppressiveness of Javert’s vow of silence, and went into the garden, where time was not standing still and the world moved as it always had. He rolled up his sleeves and trimmed the grass, deadheaded the flowers, pruned the apple trees. He pulled weeds and tended to his vegetables, with as much care as he had once tended Cosette. He cleared the pond, standing up to his waist in cool water, dredging the weeds and muck so his fish could see clear again. As the water soaked his trousers he remembered, suddenly, the last time he had been so deep in water.

_The river had been cold, much colder than the June weather would have him believe it would be. It had knocked the breath from his lungs and, for a moment, he had thought himself drowning. For a terrible moment, the idea of dying with Javert had not seemed so bad. Their lives had been as one for so long, it made a horrific sort of sense. Cosette was going to leave him for the boy, he already knew. Perhaps he was supposed to die now; it would be easy, so easy, to close his eyes and take a breath and-_

_Then he had surfaced and seen Javert, face down, limp in the torrent. He had been much heavier than his too thin frame suggested, and Valjean had almost lost him to the swirling currents before they made it to the shore. Valjean, his strength gone, collapsed at Javert’s side and could not move, beyond rolling himself as close as he could to Javert’s side to keep the man as warm as he was able. Sometime in the night, a boy had found them and run for a doctor on the promise of a sous. The doctor brought a carriage and helped Valjean to his feet, and together they lifted Javert onto the comfort of the padded seats._

Valjean shuddered in his shirtsleeves, the pond water and the fish about his ankles suddenly an unpleasant experience. The hairs rose up on his arms and neck, and he fought the urge to panic. Clambering out of the pond, he glanced up at the window. Javert was there, watching him, his forehead pressed to the glass as though it was the only thing holding him up. It probably was; he was not so strong as all that yet. Rubbing his arms fiercely, Valjean looked away from the face at the window. He hoped Javert did not remember the water. He knew, in his heart, that he probably did.

Javert began to pace soon after that, when he could support his own weight without hurting his ribs anymore. He limped a little, like Valjean did, that purposeful stride gone forever now. His breath rattled in his chest, and the doctor said it always would, that Javert had damaged his lungs and would catch every chill he was exposed to for the rest of his life. They were not young men, Valjean had realised with a start, not even Javert who in his memory had been that boy-guard of Toulon for so long. The doctor told them that they were lucky to have survived. A snort from Javert was the closest he came to speaking in that whole month.

And in August, finally, when Valjean was safe in his garden, Javert had appeared at the back door. Valjean ignored him, hoped the peace of the outside would draw the man out. It did. Javert came hesitantly to his side and reached out, cupping a rose in his hand and stroking the petals with the other. 

“Do you enjoy horticulture?” Valjean asked, like he had asked a hundred unanswered questions a day since The River.

“I have never had much call for it before.”

Javert’s voice was barely more than a whisper, so rough that Valjean struggled to understand the words. It hardly mattered; Javert had spoken! Valjean twisted to look at him and found a careful guardedness in Javert’s eyes, a warning that he would flee at the first thing to startle him.

“Well,” Valjean said hesitantly, feeling for the next step before he took it, “I could teach you. If you would like.”

Javert did not answer, instead retreating to the bench a little way away. Valjean fought the urge to smile. Javert had not run. They were making progress.

It became normal then, as August stretched out before them in a hazy blur, for Javert to join him in the garden. Valjean would breakfast alone and head outside into the mid-morning sun, the newspaper under his arm and his second cup of tea cradled in his hands. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he bent his head over the paper, but he did not move and he did not look up until he heard the creak of the porch behind him. 

It was still odd to see Javert so casually dressed, clad only in the light trousers and linen shirt that Valjean had acquired for him. He had tried to go to the inspector’s lodgings, when it became clear that he would live, only to find that his landlady had long since given him up for dead and sold on his things to make up the rent he owed. Valjean had stopped at his tailor on the way home, to place an order; Javert was both too tall and too thin to comfortably borrow any of Valjean’s own clothes. The shirt Valjean had dressed him in on the night of the The River was barely decent, too short in the body and arms, too loose across the shoulders and around the collar. He had been just as uncomfortable seeing it as Javert must have felt wearing it; a tickle at the back of Valjean’s mind, the intimacy of the thing, made his mouth dry. He much preferred Javert’s new attire; he could think clearly around him, once more.

Javert would come into the light, dressed for work, and follow Valjean to whatever corner of the garden needed their attention.

“It will soon be time for the harvest,” Valjean told him, one morning, as Javert wielded the watering can at the vegetable patch, following invisible lines that only he could see, “We can pick the courgettes even sooner.”

“I do not know how you remember it all,” Javert said, eyes on his work, “You do not seem to have a plan, other than what is in your own mind.”

“It is the rhythm of life,” Valjean shrugged, on his knees next to a bean he was grafting, “Where I grew up, you were born with dirt under your nails. If you didn’t understand, you didn’t live long enough to learn.”

“And yet you stole to feed your family.”

Valjean’s head jerked up, but Javert still did not look at him. It was the first time that either of them had even alluded to the years of their lives before these months, before this endless and burning summer. Valjean could only imagine that the heat was responsible for the slight flush of Javert’s cheeks, but his voice had been nothing but curious, and so he breathed hard through his nose and turned back to his beans. 

“I did. Sometimes, no matter the gardener, a year can be a bad one. It is no person’s fault.”

“Except your god, perhaps.”

There was still none of the old sharpness in Javert’s voice, only a tired resignation, but Valjean could not help what he said next.

“My god has done nothing but show me the good in myself. Perhaps if you were to listen, he would do the same for you.”

He regretted it the moment he spoke, but it was too late to take the words back. Javert dropped the watering can and stood, head bowed and hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

“Javert-”

“No god was there to answer my prayers that night,” Javert forced out between clenched teeth, “Nor the nights I was a boy and still believed he might be there somewhere. No one has ever been there for me when I needed them, except for you, Jean Valjean, the night you pulled me from that stinking river and brought me here. Tell me what to think of that.”

His voice was rising, an edge to it that could have been called hysterical, had it come from any man but Javert. 

“I am no god,” Valjean interrupted softly, “Nobody except a man who would see you safe and well.”

“But why?” Javert hissed, “Who am I to you except he who hunted you, who ruined the life you could have had with your daughter? Why am I still living and breathing when anyone else would have seen me dead and been glad of it?”

His hands were clenched so tightly that Valjean feared he would make himself bleed. Abandoning his plant, he stood and took Javert’s hands in his, one by one, prising the fingers away from his palms. The other man was breathing hard, too hard, and the dull flush on his face had become an inferno. His task complete, Valjean held onto those hands, even when Javert tried to twist away.

“You are living and breathing because you are meant to be. I had no reason to find you that night, other than because I was supposed to do so.”

“But-”

“I do not hate you, Javert. All you ever did was your job, admirably and well. I have never willingly hurt another and I did not wish to see you dead. You are the only other person alive who knows me, really knows me. I could not give you up.”

Javert was trembling, his pulse beating too quickly in his wrists, and Valjean feared the exertion had been too much. He steered Javert towards his chair and helped him sit. Kneeling at his side, he began to stroke a soothing pattern down Javert’s arms. 

“I do not understand.”

Valjean nudged Javert’s chin so he was forced to look at him. Javert’s eyes were bright, almost fever bright, and he stilled Valjean’s hands, clinging onto them as though they were the only thing to keep him from drowning all over again.

“You do not need to understand. Not yet. You need to heal and learn and one day, perhaps it will all make sense to you.”

Javert made a sceptical sound, but as the minutes ticked by, he began to relax his hold, and soon Valjean was able to bring him a cup of tea and return to his beans, aware of Javert’s eyes on him the entirety of the afternoon. He had said that Javert would understand one day but, truth be told, he was still struggling to do that himself. God had of yet left him bereft of the answers he was seeking. Where they differed though was the faith, the unshakeable faith that the answers would come in time. He had not known Javert was so adrift in the world, without even belief to comfort him. It was no wonder he had seen no way forwards except to cast himself into the river; the heartless and unforgiving law had been all he ever had. The thought of a little boy, with copper coloured hair and green eyes, curled in a prison cell with his mother, deciding even then that the law would be his only means of escape, his only friend, almost moved Valjean to tears. He did not know why. All he knew for now was that Javert’s gaze, once the most terrifying thing he ever encountered, burned him, marked him in a way that he could not describe.


	2. Proverbs 1:5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which books are read.

If life became a little easier after that day, Valjean had not spoken of it to Javert. If he could breathe a little easier around the man, he would not risk it by saying as much. August faded and so did the heat, into a September that was fresher and cooler. Javert joined him for breakfast now, rising earlier and earlier until one day he was in the kitchen even before Valjean himself. He began to go to bed later as well, and Valjean feared that the dark circles under his eyes were a sign that he was not caring for himself. He seemed well enough though, for all that; not quite so far as affable but almost good company. They breakfasted together, worked in the garden and then lunched, and the unchanging routine of it all soothed Valjean’s nerves in a way that nothing had since Cosette was a child and he had worked in the gardens of the convent. He had felt closer to God then, it was true, but slowly these mornings were giving him the time to think once more on God’s grace and the good fortune that had led him here; a free man, with a garden that was his own, with a daughter and a son-in-law who loved him truly and an almost friend at his side. It was more than he had ever deserved and he would not waste that now. 

The afternoons were his own, when Javert retreated to the parlour and his pacing, and Valjean read in his library. It was the second day of October, the day of the carrot harvest. Javert had taken to the task with an enthusiasm that Valjean had not seen from him before, and the job had been done in no time at all.

“May I join you in the library this afternoon?” Javert said suddenly at lunch, his eyes fixed on his plate, “I grow tired of my own thoughts.”

“Of course. You are always welcome.”

There was a chair and small sofa in the library, and Javert hovered awkwardly in the door waiting for Valjean to make his choice. 

“Sit wherever you like,” Valjean flicked his hand vaguely at the chairs, “I will be some time here at the shelves.”

“Do you not have a preference?”

“None that is more important to me than your comfort. I will have either happily enough.”

He did not hear Javert creep into the room but when he eventually turned, book in hand, he was perched on the edge of the chair, gazing at the shelves.

“Help yourself to any book that you like. I have no real system here, I’m afraid. Cosette used to call it my treasure hunt room.”

Javert did not move, eying the cover of the book that Valjean held in his hands.

“ _Notre-Dame de Paris_ ,” he said, “You are reading a history of the church?”

“Not at all,” Valjean smiled, “It is a novel. I have yet to start it but I have heard excellent things.”

“What is it about?” Javert asked, “I have never read a novel.”

“Never read a novel? You have missed out, my friend.”

Javert blinked rapidly and his hands clenched, resting on his thighs. Valjean thought back on his words and realised he had called Javert ‘friend’. He opened his mouth to comment, but Javert surprised him by speaking first.

“Reading has always been trying, in my experience. I am not at ease with words on a page. There is no pleasure in it for me.”

“Oh,” Valjean searched for something to say to such an admission and spoke before he could think, “I could read this one aloud, if you wished it.”

“I do not want to put you out.”

“You will not. I’ll enjoy it. I used to read aloud to Cosette, even when she was grown and hardly needed me. I will be glad to share it with you.”

Javert nodded, a little jerk of his head, and Valjean turned to the first page. 

“You still have not told me what the story is about.”

“A deformed man lives in the bell tower of Notre Dame. He is kind and good but the world sees him as a monster. It is about the world   
learning that they are wrong.”

As he said the words, Valjean saw Javert’s face twitch and realised what he had said.

“It seems I am going to learn my lesson again and again,” Javert murmured, “I cannot say that I do not deserve it. Please, go on. I will not interrupt again.”

Clearing his throat and looking down to hide his smile, Valjean began to read.

“It is this day three hundred and forty-eight years, six months and nineteen days since the good people of Paris were awakened by a grand peal from all the bells in the three districts of the City, the University and the Ville….”

The book took them almost the entirety of October to read, because Javert could not concentrate for as long as he might once have. He was not the best of audiences, for he did not sit like Cosette had done. More often than not, he took up his pacing again, from the window to the door and back again, but he listened well, because he always made a comment when Valjean had finished their chapters. Then Valjean would take up his own reading material and spend the rest of the afternoon with it, whilst Javert battled his way through the daily newspaper. Valjean would steal glances at him and watch Javert’s lips moving as he read. It made him look younger in a way, so very much more human than he had ever seemed before. Valjean, who had never suffered from such a problem once he had actually learned his letters, could not imagine the discipline needed to have a post such as Javert’s and struggle with such a fundamental part of the role. There was much to be admired in Javert’s character; if only he could see it in himself!

“I do not care for the ending,” Javert said, the day that the book was finished, “It is not a fair one.”

“Who said it had to be fair?”

“There is no clear resolution. No one deserves utter condemnation. None are so good as to be blameless. I do not know what to think.”

“That is a sign of a good story,” Valjean said, “That it reflects life and all its complications.”

“I am still discovering such things,” Javert stopped at the window and gazed out. Over his head, Valjean watched as the wind blew the last stubborn leaves that clung to the tree in front of the house. Javert had filled out a little since June; Valjean could not see around his silhouette as easily as he had been able to before. 

“Literature has taught me things that I did not know about men and their lives,” Valjean closed the book and placed it on the table beside him, “The things I did not learn from God, I learned from looking into the minds of those who wrote their thoughts for all to share.”

“Perhaps you could share some more of it with me. If I am to learn.”

“Nothing would please me more.”

As winter came and the garden went to its rest, Valjean made sure to carry on their afternoon reading. Cosette was reading an English novelist, Jane Austen, and pressed the book she had most recently finished upon him when he mentioned his crusade to educate the odd houseguest that he was keeping company with. Cosette did not understand much of Javert’s purpose but she was happy enough that her father was not without a companion now that she had left him. 

“If you wish for Monsieur Javert to learn more of the human heart, Mademoiselle Austen is no better teacher, Papa.”

It was only on the way home, with the book tucked safely into the inside pocket of his coat, that Valjean realised he had said nothing of Javert mastering the heart. Until now, love had not even come up. Javert had not commented much upon the romance of their last novel, although he had said vaguely that he thought Claude Frollo’s most contemptable act was demanding love from one who was not willing to give it. Valjean had not thought much on the oddness of the comment, the insight that Javert needed to even recognise such a thing, but now he considered it carefully; it had been a rare occasion when Javert was seated, legs crossed in front of him, and he had not made any eye contact other than to glance up, scan Valjean’s face, and then look away again. The thought of it now made Valjean’s collar seem suddenly too tight at his neck, and he stopped in the street to adjust his cravat. Had Javert been trying to tell him something, that he was being unreasonable in his attempts to befriend the man who had been his hunter for so many years? Or was he saying something else entirely – something about him, and –

Cravat loosened as much as was decent, Valjean began to walk again, slower than he had been before. Could it be? Javert, who had never even so much as looked at the street women with anything more than the trained eye of a peace-keeper? Javert, who had separated men in Toulon with barely concealed disgust on his face? No. It was not true. He was panicking, that was all. They had been at close quarters too long and he was beginning to see things that were not there. Valjean vowed there and then to be sure to escape a little more, for some time to himself. 

When he finally returned, bringing a burst of rainfall in the front door with him, Javert was waiting with a towel which he handed to him silently. Wary once more, as he had not been for a long while, Valjean really watched him, as he had used to watch him as Monsieur Madeleine. Javert’s eyes darted to the exposed skin of Valjean’s throat and he swallowed, once, hard, before he turned to go back into the library. Towelling his hair, Valjean felt the twist of his gut. For the first time he considered that, perhaps, he did not know this Javert as well as he believed that he did.

That evening, they began the book. It was called _Sense and Sensibility_ and almost immediately Valjean worried that it would prove to be too much for Javert, or even just not to his preference. Indeed, by the end of the first chapter, Javert had already stood up and sat down at least three times. 

“Shall I continue? I fear it is a little too genteel for our taste.”

“Oh,” Javert, caught in the act of standing once more, looked perturbed, “I was rather interested to hear a little more at least.”

“Very well,” Valjean smiled, “But you seemed a little restless, even more so than usual.”

“I am cold,” Javert said bluntly, “The fire does not reach this chair so well as it does the sofa.”

Before he could stop himself, Valjean felt his eyes dart to the empty place beside him on the sofa, and looked back in time to see a familiar flush rush up Javert’s neck and spill onto his cheeks. 

“I did not mean to-”

“For goodness sake, Javert,” Valjean said lightly, “There is room enough for two on the sofa, if you wished to join me. I am quite warm and it will not put me out.”

Turning the page decisively and starting to read once more, Valjean pretended not to notice when Javert finally stood from his chair and came to the sofa. He rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment or two, before screwing up his courage and sitting down. He was careful not to touch Valjean at all, legs and arms stiff with the effort of not doing so, but he was there at least. As the minutes ticked by, little by little Valjean shifted his weight and made himself larger, until his leg was laid firmly against Javert’s, and he felt the cold begin to leave the other man and be replaced with a comforting warmth. For his part, Javert tensed even more at the first touch and then began to relax, until his right hand was loose upon his leg and almost lolling over onto Valjean’s. His head fell back to rest upon the back of the sofa and he closed his eyes, breaths that had been quick and nervous shifting into something slower and more restful. It was only when Valjean finished the third chapter and his own hand brushed against Javert’s as he laid the book on his lap, that Javert twitched and tensed once more, standing as quickly as he could and performing his customary bow. 

“I think this book will suit our purpose well,” he stammered, “I will retire now. Good night.”

The whole thing had taken no more than a few seconds, so eager was the man to be away. All Valjean could think, as he sat alone and gazed into the embers of the fire, was that he could quite easily grow used to the warmth of Javert at his side.


	3. John 4:7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean comes to realise something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should confess, as this story progresses, that I have virtually no experience of the practices of the Catholic church. All of my knowledge comes from TV, Wikipedia and that one friend I have who studied theology. Let me know if there are glaring errors or things to be discussed - I am more than willing to improve and amend the facts I have been given.

The next day was Sunday and Valjean resolved with himself, in the sleepless, early hours of the morning, to attend church. He had been neglecting it of late, out of concern for Javert, but he needed guidance, and he needed it desperately. 

“I’m going to the service this morning,” he told Javert over breakfast, “You are welcome to join me, if you wish.”

“Thank you but no,” Javert muttered, “I have not been to a church since…”

“Since you attended with me in Montreuil-sur-Mer?”

“That was the last time there was any person to notice if I did not go. No one watches me here.”

“I do not recall watching you, Javert,” Valjean mused, spreading butter on his second slice of toast.

“On the contrary. I felt your eyes on me, like a rabbit watches the fox. That is how – that is, it was one reason I came to suspect you.”

Here it was again, talk of the past just as though they had shared more than a life on the run. How strange to be so matter of fact, as though nothing had mattered of the world they knew before. Here was Javert who blushed and smiled sometimes, shared his food and shared his house.

“I will miss your company,” Valjean said, “But I understand.”

The walk to the church, although a little strange to perform alone with no Cosette on his arm, was wonderfully familiar and his feet took him gladly along that well-trod path. His church, the one he had chosen so many years ago for its small size and even smaller congregation, sat in the shadows of the convent. No one of importance attended it, so they had been safe enough. Valjean slipped into a pew behind the people gathered there already, hoping that he would not be questioned too harshly about his absence; some of the women his own age, or even older, had skills of observation and deduction that would have put the old Javert to shame.

Father Léo was a young man, barely older than Marius, but he was a good priest and had proved a good replacement for the grizzled and ancient Father Hugo, who had taken retirement not so many years ago. Father Hugo had been earnest and good with the children, but rather too fond of the type of fire and brimstone sermons that Valjean had always balked at. When Hugo got started, he had often covered Cosette’s ears so she was not forced to listen. Father Léo was altogether softer, although with a streak of iron in him that Valjean thought Javert would approve of, if only he was prepared to give this church the chance it needed from him. Léo dealt with all who came to him with the same even temper and gentle hand, but he was strong too, remarkably so for one so young. His honesty was sometimes brutal and he did not shy away from truth, but all who attended the church loved him for it. Most importantly, he was fair, and Valjean knew how Javert desired fairness above all else.

Léo caught his eye as he took to the pulpit for his sermon, and when he nodded, Valjean knew that even if he did not want to talk to the man afterwards, his presence had been noted and would be discussed. Valjean could hardly blame him; in all the years he had known Léo, he had only ever missed a Sunday if Cosette was ill, and they had been so few as to count on one hand. His extended absence, was unusual and even worrying, and Valjean wondered at himself for only thinking of that now, whereas before he always sent a boy with a note. His mind had been so full of his task that he had not thought of the church at all. It was true, of course; virtually every waking moment had been full of Javert. 

He wondered what Javert was doing now; when he had left him, he was slowly cleaning the breakfast things, with much more care than Valjean himself ever had for plates and bowls that were so chipped and battered they were barely worthy of the name crockery. Javert took comfort in routine now, as Valjean did, whereas before Valjean had never seen him so animated as when he was on the hunt, flying across town and cornering his prey. After his ritual cleaning, Valjean did not have much idea of what Javert did to amuse himself when he was alone; he did work his way through the newspaper on more days than when he did not, but aside from that, Valjean could only imagine him pacing, and he hoped that he did not do so for too long. 

He was so deep in thought that only the familiar feeling of a pair of eyes, fixed upon him, shook him from his revelry. Guiltily, he looked around and found that the eyes belonged to Father Léo himself, who was watching him with a slightly furrowed brow and a fixed expression. Some of the older ladies had already gone forwards to take the Eucharist and Valjean realised that he had dreamed away most of the sermon without hearing a word. Léo’s hand rested a little harder than usual on Valjean’s head when he went for the Eucharist himself, and he knew that his indiscretion had been seen and noted. 

Valjean made polite small talk with the other parishioners, after the service, before he slipped back into his pew and waited for Father Léo to finish speaking with his flock. The church was small but had been lovingly made; great pillars carved with intricate designs of birds and flowers held the roof, and he studied them now, trying to find Cosette’s favourites from carvings that had, to him, often all looked the   
same.

“You must look harder, Papa,” she had insisted, tugging on his hand and pointing higher, “See? There is a pair of doves winding up to the ceiling on this one, but on that one they are swifts with pointed wings. Do you see?”

He had seen, after a while, but he often pretended he could not, simply so he could watch her delight over such simple, beautiful things.

He found the swifts now and was following their path heavenwards, when Father Léo sat down beside him.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent! I was beginning to despair of ever seeing you again. Mademoiselle Cosette, I hear, is now Madame Pontmercy.”

“She is, indeed! This last July passed.”

“My congratulations. And you, monsieur? Where have you been for long?”

“I have been…occupied.”

“There is no need to hang your head, monsieur. I am not here to chastise you. How have you been occupied, if I may ask?”

“A…friend. He has been desperately ill and as he has no one else, I took him into my care.”

Father Léo smiled, a soft thing, and clapped his hands. The sound echoed in the empty church.

“A worthy cause, Monsieur Fauchelevent. I suspected it would be as much.”

“I am sorry I did not think to tell you,” Valjean gazed at his hands, “The thought did not even cross my mind.”

Despite Father Léo’s best encouragement, Valjean had never felt truly comfortable in the presence of such men. Bishop Myriel had been a saint walking the Earth, living and breathing to save helpless sinners, and now he felt all holy men had such a mark upon them that he dared not look at them with anything short of reverence and knowledge of his humble failings. He could not speak of Javert now. He should not.

And yet, Léo had asked.

“Your friend. He is dear to you?”

Valjean started and scanned Léo’s face anxiously, but there was nothing but patient benevolence to be found there.

“He…he is. I have known him for most of my life, but only now do I truly find myself calling him friend.”

It was not a lie. Not exactly so.

“Pray tell me, if you wish. What is the nature of his sickness? Perhaps we could pray for him.”

“He is faring better now,” Valjean said, “His illness was of the spirit, truth be told. For many months I have feared his mind would never be what it was. I have hope for him now. At least, more hope than I had before.”

“Our minds are often our worst enemies,” Léo said, “Your friend is lucky, in his way. Many who fall do not find their way to freedom again.”

He could not help it; Valjean winced at the word ‘fall’. Father Léo was watching him carefully, but he did not comment on the twitch. He did look pensive though, as he sat back next to Valjean. Together they gazed back up at the carvings on the pillar, and Valjean slowly felt his shoulders begin to relax. Léo would not ask him for something that he did not want to give.

“I do worry for him,” Valjean finally ventured, “Despite my hope.”

“Why?”

“He has lost his livelihood, and the rules by which he lived his life. He is adrift and I fear there is no anchor that will properly stay him now.”

“What did your friend do?”

Valjean hesitated; news of the disappearance of one of Paris’ most promising officers had reached the papers in the days after Javert’s jump. Valjean had needed to pay the doctor and the gamin who had found them for their silence and he had lived in fear of Javert’s discovery ever since. There was every chance a man such as Léo would remember the story and make the connection. Chances were, some of the people of the streets had already discovered the truth.

“He was a…man of the law. But he has learned the law is a cold mistress.”

“He is not a man of religion?”

“I do not think he is entirely lost,” Valjean said carefully, “But he does not believe God has ever been there for him. With the life he has had, I cannot say that I blame him.”

Léo made a sound in the back of his throat and reached for a Bible from the shelf in front of him. He began to leaf through it, one page at a time.

“Have you tried to bring him here? To God’s house?”

“I invited him,” Valjean murmured, “And I think that one day, I will ask and he will agree. Until then, the answer will always be no.”

“James 1:6,” Léo tapped the page in front of him, “But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”

“He doubts, and I cannot change his mind.”

“You cannot force a man to believe, Monsieur Fauchelevent. Let him know he is always welcome here and then give him the time he needs. Eventually, he will come back to God.”

“I worry,” Valjean sighed, “That he will not ever truly find himself without God, but he will not come to God until he has found himself.”  
Léo began to turn pages again, more frantically this time, and muttering under his breath. Valjean fixed his eyes on the man’s hands, hands that were free of blemishes and scratches, scars and the rough skin of someone who has been a labourer their whole life. In his darker moments, he had dared to question even for a second what it was that men who had such soft hands could possibly tell someone like him about life and its hardships. In a way, he understood Javert’s reluctance to come to God all too well. In his own way, Javert had carried as much weight in his life as Valjean had. 

When Léo looked up from his Bible, it was with sunlight in his smile.

“Oh Monsieur Fauchelevent. If only all of my parishioners were like you, it would make for far more interesting debate. Go home to your friend now and remember two things as you wait for him to come into the light. Corinthians 13:13 and Peter 4:8. Do you know the   
passages?”

“I do not.”

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love,” Léo said, taking his hand and squeezing it firmly, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins.”

Valjean froze and tried to pull away, but Léo’s grip was deceptively strong and he did not let go. When Valjean eventually dared to drag his eyes up to the man’s face, he could not read his expression. 

“Care for your friend as you are, monsieur, and love him as much as you can. Eventually, that is what will bring him home to God.”

Léo must have seen him panicking then and let go of him, but the last clasp of his hand on Valjean’s shoulder felt like a bruise spread over his skin, like another of the brands that had marked him so. The priest had disappeared through into the ante-chamber before Valjean dared to get to his feet and begin the walk home.

That afternoon was the first that he did not read with Javert. He pleaded ill and spent the rest of the day in his chamber, curled on the bed with his Bible, and pretended that he did not hear when Javert’s soft footsteps stopped outside of his door and did not leave for what felt like an age. Eventually, he walked away, but when Valjean dared to look into the corridor, there was a cup of tea sitting on the floor outside. Later, he heard Javert come up and retire to his own chamber, but Valjean was awake long into the night, hands resting on pages of the book that he was not even reading. 

He prayed, whispering into the darkness, and thought again and again on Léo’s advice, until the sun came up and then, washing in cold water, he ventured to the kitchen.

He understood now.

He was not surprised to find Javert already there, nursing a cup of coffee. Valjean almost missed his step, because Javert’s hair was loose around his shoulders, and he had never seen it so. Even when he had dragged him from the river, the queue had been half-intact, and had remained so until Toussaint had taken it upon herself to brush Javert’s hair carefully and retie it with the black ribbon. His hair looked cleaner than it had for a long while, and he was struck by the idea that Javert had washed it yesterday whilst he was out.

Javert looked determined to be sullen until Valean stumbled, and then he was on his feet and at his side.

“Are you well? Should you be out of bed?”

“Quite well,” he laughed, “Oh, very well indeed.”

Javert’s hands, nervous on his arm, dropped away and he blinked quickly.

“You are not ill? I thought-”

“I am sorry to have caused you concern,” Valjean shook the kettle, found it still half full, and placed it into the fire, “Would you like some more coffee?”

“P-please.”

Javert resumed his seat at the table and Valjean felt his eyes on him whilst he moved around, making coffee and toast, frying eggs in the pan and slicing apples. 

“Your hair is loose,” he said, not turning from his task, “I did not imagine that it was so long.”

“I have neglected to cut it, of late. I do not usually allow it to grow so much.”

“I could cut it for you, if you wish. I have often done so for Cosette.”

There was no reply and he finally turned around to find Javert moving his jaw as though he was trying to speak. 

“I must dress,” he said eventually, leaping up from the table, “I did not expect you out of your room today. I will return in a few minutes.”

Valjean could not stop the chuckle that escaped him at the sight of Javert fleeing from him. How strange it was to think that Javert had understood something of their souls before he had. 

When Javert returned, his hair was tied neatly into its queue and he was dressed properly. With his clothes, he had clawed back some of his usual self and breakfast passed in companionable silence, broken only by the sound of knives scraping on bread and the crunching of apple slices. Valjean noticed that Javert ate more, and more voraciously, than he had on any day since he woke up.

“Could I persuade you to walk with me this morning?” Valjean asked, as Javert was clearing the dishes, “There are few who would recognise you without your uniform.”

“For-for a short while, perhaps. If you do not mind that I am slower these days.”

“We have nowhere to be, Javert. We can take as long as we wish to get there.”


	4. Isaiah 58:10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert goes outside and some conversations begin to be had.

Whilst Valjean was aware of the significance of the moment – Javert leaving the house for the first time since that night in June – he endeavoured to make it seem less important than it was. Javert was already on the edge of his nerves; as he put on the spare coat that Valjean had found for him, his hands shook. Only when he had pushed them into the pockets and stood facing the door with what probably passed as resolve on his face, did Valjean slip the latch on the door and pull it open. He stepped out first, blinking a little in the bright November light, and turned to Javert with as reassuring a smile as he could muster.

“It is cold today. I need a new scarf and gloves. Perhaps we could walk to a shop and purchase some.”

“Whatever you wish,” Javert said, hovering, just for a moment, on the threshold. He took a deep breath and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him with a definitive slam.

The pace they set was a slow one. Valjean had grown used to his limp over the years and could mostly allow for it, but in recent years cold weather and his advancing age had begun to encumber him once more. Javert, new to his ailments, was slower still. His limp, caused by a broken bone when he hit the water, had set badly, despite the doctor’s best efforts. He was a good ten years younger than Valjean and although they were evenly matched now, Valjean hoped that one day, with time, Javert might be able to correct his gait once more. That was not likely to happen though, if Javert could not convince himself that he was worthy of such effort. Until then, Valjean thought, smiling secretly into his coat collar, he would be glad to walk at Javert’s side.

The morning was quiet; it was not a market day in Paris and most people who would have been on the streets had retreated to warmer hideaways. Carriages rattled past, throwing snow up with their wheels, and gamins ran past clutching messages in dirty hands, but there were few others. Valjean recognised the odd urchin here and there, offering a coin to the ones he knew. Whenever one passed them, he felt Javert drop his head and draw back, but none of the boys even glanced in his direction. Slowly, Javert began to relax, his hands unfolding at his sides, and he seemed in good spirits when they reached the shop. 

“Monsieur Fauchelevent!” the mistress smiled, “It has been too long, sir! I hear your lovely daughter is married of late.”

“Indeed, Madame, she is. Allow me to introduce my friend, Monsieur-”

Damn! Why had he not thought of this before they went out? Javert would not want his name shared with a gossiping shopkeeper. He couldn’t –

“Monsieur Guy,” Javert said smoothly, stepping forwards and offering his hand. Valjean had never heard him use that voice before, and he wondered if this was what Javert the Spy sounded like. 

“You are very welcome, Monsieur Guy,” Madame Dubois chirped, “Now, Monsieur Fauchelevent. What can I help you with today?”

Javert took a seat in the corner of the shop, where he could watch the door, and quirked an eyebrow at Valjean when the little woman turned her back on them. It was all Valjean could do not to laugh out loud. 

Madame Dubois chattered happily as she showed him cases of new leather gloves and a trunk of scarves. Valjean looked through them carefully, selecting two of each. His eyes strayed to Javert, whenever he glanced up. For all the world looking in, Inspector Javert was back and sitting before him. Only Valjean could see that his shoulders were hunched, just a little, and his eyes were never still as he watched the street outside. Inspector Javert had been watchful, as a lion on the plains was watchful. This Javert was like a rabbit in a cage. 

“Here,” Valjean said, when he had paid Madame Dubois and assured her that his next visit would not be long, “These are for you.”

Javert took the gloves and scarf almost gingerly, one finger following the stripe of purple wool that stood out from the darker black. 

“What are these for?”

“If we are to walk together in winter, you must be as properly dressed as I.”

“I cannot accept them. I have no money to-”

“They are a gift. Come, let us go to the gardens on our way home.”

Before he stood up, Javert wrapped the scarf carefully around his neck, tucking the loose ends under his collar. His gloves he put in his pocket, and Valjean pretended not to notice that Javert wanted his hands free to stroke the wool of the scarf as they walked.

They cut through the Luxumbourg Gardens, stopping to sit side by side on a stone bench tucked away into a shadowy corner.  
Javert was a little breathless as they took the seat, his breath misting in the frozen air. His cheeks were rosy and Valjean fought with a sudden, reckless urge to kiss them. 

“The gamins. They trust you.”

“Hmm?” Valjean, caught in his dreaming, grinned guiltily, “I’m sorry. Did you speak?”

“The gamins trust you,” Javert said slowly, his eyes wandering over Valjean’s face curiously, “I have rarely seen them so at ease with a man of your standing.”

“They are only children, Javert. Children are naturally trusting.”

“But they do not trust everyone,” Javert insisted, “Many times they could have helped us in our work and they never would, even if we knew that they knew something of importance.”

“Children must be treated gently.”

Javert did not reply, turning his hands over instead and looking at them carefully. 

“I am not used to gentleness,” he said eventually, “And I fear it is too late to learn.”

“Nonsense.”

Valjean could not help himself – he reached out and wrapped his hands around Javert’s, pulling them closer to him. Javert, he suspected on instinct, tried to shy away but Valjean held on, just as he had before and, soon enough, Javert stopped trying to get away.

“These hands have tended plants in the garden,” Valjean murmured, “You nurtured them. Do not tell me that you do not understand gentleness.”

“A few carrots and potatoes do not make up for a lifetime of-”

“Enough!”

Valjean could not remember the last time he had raised his voice, but he did so now. Javert fell silent, thankfully; Valjean did not know what he would have done if he had not. 

“Do not tell me these things are not possible when I am before you as an example of the lessons that can be learned late in life. I was once just as you were.”

“But people have loved you, Jean Valjean,” Javert said miserably, and Valjean was horrified to hear a catch in his voice, “Your daughter, your workers – the family you stole your bread for. No one has ever loved me.”

Valjean felt the words close like a fist on his heart, squeezing so tightly that he could not breathe. He saw that little boy again, the one with the chestnut hair, curled up on his mattress in a prison cell. He saw the youngster, the guard in a uniform that was too big for him, braver and endowed with more moral backbone than any of the guards twice his age, who ate his meals alone and did not laugh. He saw the policeman, the proud man who worked every hour that God gave and took nothing that was not due to him. He saw his hunter and he saw his friend. He knew what he wanted to do, more than he longed for the air in his lungs. He heard Léo’s voice though, counselling patience, and he knew what he had to do.

He dared not scare Javert so. Not yet.

“They could learn to,” he said carefully, “I have seen it in you.”

Javert did not answer, but he also did not run, not as he would have done if Valjean had said what he truly wished to – I could love you, as you love me. If you gave me a chance.

A clock struck somewhere, declaring it to be twelve o’clock, and when Valjean stood, Javert followed him readily enough. The silence between them was pensive but not painful, and the walk home was pleasant. At the end of the Rue Plumet, a beggar woman with a tiny child at her hip had stopped to catch her breath. The babe was wrapped in the tattered remains of a knitted blanket, and the young mother had used her own shawl to add another layer. Her skin beneath her dress was mottled and wind-burn red. Valjean reached for his purse and gave the woman all of the coins he had left to give, five francs or so.

“Thank you, monsieur,” she gasped, the money clutched tight in her hand, “Thank you and bless you.”

“Get somewhere warm,” he said gently, “Go to the convent. They will help you.”

He began to walk on, and was a good few paces away before he realised that Javert was not at his side. Turning sharply, he found Javert gazing at the woman, his eyes flickering towards the child uncertainly. Slowly, as though the idea was being chipped from stone, he removed his new gloves from his pockets and held them tentatively towards her.

“Oh monsieur, I couldn’t!” she exclaimed, and Javert drew back as though he had been scalded, eyes pleading as he turned to Valjean, the gloves dangling in his hands. Valjean nodded his encouragement, a warm light filling him as Javert looked back to the woman and held them more assuredly towards her.

“Please. Take them.”

The woman, so young she could have been one of Cosette’s old school friends, began to weep as she put out her hands one by one, and Javert slipped the gloves clumsily onto them. He seemed, for a moment, to consider the notion of squeezing her free hand, and then he shied away, bowing shortly, and taking his leave.

“I could learn to,” he said as he hurried past Valjean towards the safety of home, “You believe that this is one more thing I could be taught.”

“You have already begun. That was your idea, not mine.”

“It is – not as difficult as I had imagined.”

“Things rarely are, Javert. They so very rarely are.”

They ended the day with the conclusion of ‘Sense and Sensibilbity’, a little too overworked for Valjean’s taste, but heartfelt and, most of all, happy – far happier than they had got from Quasimodo and Esmerelda. It was good for Javert to see that endings could be good; in Valjean’s experience, few people were so unhappy to have lived their entire lives in despair. 

“I think Edward Ferris is supposed to be the hero of this story,” Javert said unexpectedly, as Valjean paused before the last page, “But any fool can see that it is Brandon who truly plays that role.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ferris breaks his promise – however you try to defend him, he still lied. Brandon is loyal to everyone that he promises loyalty to.”

“You are probably correct.”

“It is more than probable,” Javert insisted, more animated than he had been at any point in either of their novels, “Brandon does not bully, lie or deceive. He waits, when other men would have long given up.”

“Love is worth waiting for, when it is true.”

Silence greeted him once more, and Valjean took the moment to finish reading the last lines. The quiet stretched even beyond that, only the crackling of logs in the grate troubling it. Javert had his legs crossed before him and his fingers played over his knees as he beat a random tattoo.

“What worries you, Javert?”

“No worries,” he said sullenly, and then seemed to hear himself, “That is, I am only thinking. Could – I mean to say would – can –”

“Please, just speak,” Valjean put the book on the side table and leaned forwards, “Tell me. Ask me.”

“You say that – love – is worth waiting for?”

“It is.”

“Could I meet your daughter?” he said hurriedly, “You talk of her so often and I think I begin to understand what she is to you. You are my rescuer and now I wish to meet yours.”

“I would be delighted,” Valjean laughed, “I suppose she did rescue me, in her little way. What a wonderful turn of phrase, Javert. These novels have begun to shape you already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Alan Rickman, the Colonel Brandon we can only hope that Javert could learn from.


	5. John 4:19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is some tension, and Cosette is a total babe.

Valjean arranged for them to have tea with Cosette and no other occupant of that grand house. He thought that, with time, Javert could perhaps be ready to meet Marius and his grandfather, but until then, his sweet Cosette would be more than enough new acquaintance. She had been surprised, when he asked if his friend could accompany him, but had agreed readily. It was only later that he realised she had never known him in a world where he had such things as friends. She still believed, even after all these years, that the dearly departed Fauchelevent of the convent had indeed been his brother. He would not have her believing anything else.

More snow had fallen since their visit to the shop, and in the week before Cosette’s tea, he had been back to church once more. Father Léo had acknowledged his presence but had not spoken to him in any great depth, which Valjean was grateful for; truth be told, he was still weighing what the priest had told him and worried he would find himself wanting. Léo had credited him with far more restraint and simple, uncompromised faith than he himself believed that he possessed. He could not drag Javert to the church, force him to his knees and demand that he pray, but in the darkest part of his soul, he wished that he could. This gentle guiding towards the light was more trying than he dared to admit. After that second Sunday, when there were no questions and only a smile, he thought that, maybe, Léo understood his concerns. Perhaps this was not about Javert being brought to God’s feet. Perhaps it was, and always had been, about showing Valjean the path of his own faith. If that was true, it became easier to bear, for Javert would not suffer if he made a mistake. The suffering would be, ultimately, entirely his own.

Valjean woke to the sound of clattering from the kitchen and hurried downstairs; Toussaint was not due in that day and it was early for his companion. It did turn out to be Javert, dragging the bathtub to its customary position in front of the hearth. A pan of water was already heating on the newly kindled fire, the back door ajar and letting in a cool breeze that curled Valjean’s toes. 

“Did I wake you? My apologies.”

“What are you doing? It is not even dawn.”

“I could not sleep,” Javert said, only half looking at him, “I thought I could begin my preparations, instead of lying about.”

“Preparations for what, exactly?”

“Our tea,” he mumbled, “With your daughter.”

Valjean could not help it; he let out a chuckle that made Javert turn sharply. He had foregone his ribbon again, and his curtain of hair fell into his eyes. 

“You think me foolish.”

“No,” Valjean smothered his mirth and stepped forwards, his hand resting on the tub, “Cosette would not want you to be so anxious. She is very affable, you know, and will not judge you for not having washed for a day or two.”

“That aside,” Javert sank into a chair, “I wish to do so.”

He growled and pushed his hair behind his ears, pulling loose one strand and measuring it against his face. When he sighed, Valjean could not help himself. 

“It is decided. I am cutting your hair for you, before you bathe. I will fetch my scissors.”

He hurried upstairs before Javert could protest, and set the things out with such purpose on his return that Javert could not even argue with him then. Instead, he sat rather passively and allowed Valjean to wrap a towel around his shoulders. As he smoothed it down, Valjean felt a movement and wondered if it was Javert who shook so, or his own hands that betrayed him. With more courage than he felt, he took Javert’s mane of hair in one hand and began to run a comb through it. This time it was unmistakable; Javert was trembling so much that he could see it. His own blood began to rush through him.

“Your hair is thicker than Cosette’s,” he said, desperately casting around for something, anything, to distract himself, “You could sell the offcuts to the wig makers and make yourself a fortune.”

“I did once,” Javert said after a pause, forcing the words out, “When I was younger and had no other choice. It was not a proud time in my life and I do not wish to repeat it.”

Valjean could not help himself then; his fingers strayed up to Javert’s scalp and ran through the hair they found there, knuckles pressing into the back of his head and dragging downwards. The hair was softer than he was expecting, not so soft as Cosette’s but considerably softer than his own. A startled little sound escaped Javert and Valjean swallowed a groan. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake. But he had started and he could not stop now. Javert would demand to know why and although they both knew exactly why, God forbid it happen too soon.

Pulling his hands away before he went too far again, he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers.

“How long would you like it to be?”

“Just past my collar. Long enough to tie back but shorter than before.”

Valjean worked in silence, avoiding touching any part of Javert save for the hair itself. When he had finished the back, he had no option but to go to the front and check that as well. Javert was staring absently into the fire and although a slight flush remained on his cheeks, he had calmed himself as well. Valjean combed out his fringe and measured it against his face. Damn. It needed a trim, too. He was aware of Javert’s eyes fixed on him as he cut, his fingers brushing against Javert’s face, but he resolutely refused to look at him. If he did not look, he could pretend that he could not hear too, the hitch in Javert’s breath. He tucked the hair gently behind Javert’s ears and tied the queue. He had done a fine job. 

“It is finished,” he said, “I shall leave you to bathe.”

And he fled, first to his room and then out into the street, when he had dressed. He would go to the baker and buy the freshest bread for their breakfast, and he would not think of Javert slipping out of his nightshirt and climbing into the bath, his hair fanning out on top of the water. 

If they avoided each other for the rest of the morning, Valjean thought it was probably for the best. Javert spent a long time on his ablutions and then took to the library, hiding behind the newspaper. Valjean was happy enough in the kitchen, making the last of the jams and chutney, pickling the beets for storage over the winter. As of late, Javert had offered to help with these tasks but Valjean was grateful for his absence today, because when the clock chimed and it was time to leave, both of them were relatively recovered.

“How long is the walk?” Javert asked, shrugging into his greatcoat. He wore a fresh shirt with a dark red waistcoat and a pressed cravat, blood red against his throat.

“Not too far. Where did you get those?” Valjean asked, his eye running over the tight fit of the waistcoat.

“Your Toussaint acquired them for me,” Javert mumbled, “I had a little money of my own put away with a banker. She fetched it for me.”

“Red suits you,” Valjean swallowed, trying to wet his dry mouth, “I have not seen you wear it before.”

“It was all the tailor had at the last minute, when Toussaint went to him. I would not have chosen it for myself.”

Nervously, Javert reached up to smooth the cravat and knocked it askew. Hands twitching, it was all Valjean could do to stop himself stepping forwards and adjusting it. Instead he gestured towards the hall mirror, so Javert could fix it himself.

Winter had truly come and on their journey Valjean gave away more money than a sensible man would have carried on his person at one time. Pickpockets and thieves did concern him, but starving and freezing children concerned him more. Besides, he and Javert walking side by side cut an imposing figure; he smaller but strong still, Javert so tall that he looked impressive, especially now he had regained some of the weight he had lost. No vagabond would be stupid enough to bother the pair of them, not like this. No one would look close enough to see how Javert stuck to him like a shadow, shoulders a little slumped, head a little bowed. 

Cosette’s new home, larger than anything either of them had ever dreamed of for her, still took Valjean’s breath away to see it. She and Marius had their own rooms, large and numerous enough to suit their purpose, and the aging Monsieur Gillenormand his own, smaller apartment. The rest of the space was given over to the grand rooms of old, rooms that used to host society balls and galas and dinners, but rarely knew such grandeur these days. The old man had long given up on such things and neither Cossette nor Marius were the sorts for such large-scale entertaining. They had offered Valjean his own space, so he could give up his little house. He had refused, partly because of Javert and partly because this was Cosette’s life now. He was a part of it, of course, and always would be, but she was a woman now and needed her own life. He was glad to see her though, whenever he could. 

He paused as they came through the gates so that Javert could see the house for himself. For the first time in a long time, Valjean found he could not read the expression on his face and it intrigued him. After a moment though, something slipped and he knew what Javert was thinking; his mind was on Fantine, the woman from a thousand years ago, and how that desperate creature had produced another who would one day live in a house like this. Once upon a time, such a notion would have disgusted Javert, who never believed anyone could rise above the station they had been granted in life. Valjean wondered how much of Fantine Javert could remember, whether he had thought on her at all before this moment in front of her daughter’s fine house. When Javert looked at him, pensive and perhaps sad, he knew that it had been more than the man would ever deign to admit to.

Cosette received them in her parlour, a room far bigger than the office Marius had furnished for himself. One wall was lined with her books and another had two large windows that looked out over the gardens. She had comfortable chairs here, and a sofa especially for her father who she knew preferred them. A desk sat in another corner and a table with her needlework against the back wall. It was always warm here; apart from the bedrooms, Marius insisted this be the first room to have a fire made up every morning. 

“Papa!” she exclaimed, leaping from her chair and flying into his arms, “I have so much to tell you! I have been twitching all day with excitement!”

“So much has happened since last week, my dear?”

“So much! But how rude of me. Your friend is here and I have not introduced myself.”

Pushing him gently to the side, Cosette went to Javert, who was hovering in the doorway. She took his hand and drew him into the room, a broad smile on her face.

“Monsieur Javert! My name is Cosette Pontmercy. I am very pleased to know you.”

“Madame,” Javert inclined his head, eyes flickering towards their still joined hands, “You have a beautiful house.”

“Do you think so? I like my little room the best, I must say. Papa and I are not used to such places, are we Papa?”

“Indeed no,” Valjean smiled, watching as Cosette dragged Javert towards the chairs, arranged around the fire, “Be gentle, my dear, Monsieur Javert is still in delicate health.”

“Oh Papa,” Cosette rolled her eyes, “You make him sound like an invalid. Tell my father you are perfectly well, monsieur, and ease his worries.”

“I am well, at this precise moment.”

Who would not be well, with an angel there to hold their hand and speak softly to them? Valjean settled himself on his sofa and watched as Javert’s eyes followed Cosette helplessly about the room as she threw more wood onto the fire and rang the bell for tea, chattering incessantly. She was enchanting, always had been, and it was a comfort to know that even Javert was not immune to her charms. 

“Can I tell you my news now?” she asked, when she finally sat down with them, “I shall burst!”

“Go on.”

“The school has been approved, Papa! As soon as the building has been cleaned and furnished, we shall be able to take our first pupils. Is that not wonderful news?”

“The very best, my dear. I am so very proud. Tell Monsieur Javert about it. He will no doubt be impressed.”

Cosette did not notice the slight emphasis in his voice, one that challenged Javert to indeed be impressed or suffer otherwise for it. Javert did hear it and, a shadow of his old smirk stealing across his face, turned to listen well to Cosette’s story.

She and Marius, in memory of his friends and the urchins Eponine and Gavroche, were trying to establish a school for the poorest children of St Michel, a battle that had almost proved to be too much for them. Only Monsieur Gillenormand’s influence and a substantial amount of money from the old man and Valjean himself had allowed the project to go ahead. They had a building now, a rundown wreck of an old factory, but it was something and now, finally, it seemed they would be able to have the school open by Easter. 

“Very admirable, Madame,” Javert, who had listened as intently as instructed, bowed his head once more, “Such desperate young souls need nurturing, if they are to become more than their lot.”

“Exactly, monsieur!” Cosette smiled, “You understand our fight.”

“I do, these days. A little.”

She did not notice that Javert had made two small qualified comments, as though he was pretending that he was not the man he appeared to be. All she saw was her father’s only friend and why should she treat him with anything less than the respect she would have given any companion he chose to keep? Valjean had not brought her up to be anything less than she was.

They spoke a little more on the school, Javert content to listen to her chatter, and then the tea was brought in. Cosette’s little maid was barely older than fourteen, a girl that she had taken into service on the advice of the sisters at the convent. Maria had proven to be reliable and hardworking, and Cosette adored her. As Maria brought the first tray with the tea, her eyes remained respectfully downcast. It was only when she brought the sandwiches and cakes that she looked up and saw Javert. Her step faltered and she almost stumbled, and Valjean rose to help her. Javert had not seen her reaction and Valjean would not see this afternoon ruined; whatever Javert may once have meant to her, he was no longer that man. Valjean had to believe that. He simply had to.

“Easy now, my dear” he said gently, taking the tray from her small hands, “Do not fear.”

Maria shot a look of pure terror towards Cosette, who was intent on pouring the tea, and Javert who watched her carefully.

“No – no, monsieur.”

“You are safe here, Maria. You will always be safe here. You have my word.”

“Yes,” she bit her lip, “Of course.”

He patted her on the head and she fled the room gratefully.

“Papa,” Cosette called, “Stop interrogating poor Maria. She is quite happy here, you know.”

“My apologies, my dear,” he said smoothly, slipping back onto the sofa and taking the teacup she was holding out to him, “What were you and Monsieur Javert speaking of?”

“Oh, nothing of importance,” she said, sipping her own tea, eyes shining, “I only asked how you have been treating him. He did not have the opportunity to answer me yet.”

Javert did not speak as Valjean turned to him; instead he looked at his teacup, Cosette’s delicate china that he cradled awkwardly in his large hands.

“Well, monsieur?” Cosette asked, her voice playful, “You can tell me the truth. Papa is quite harmless, you know.”

Javert snorted, the first time Valjean had heard him laugh, and he started to laugh himself.

“Leave Monsieur Javert be, Cosette. Let us sample cook’s wonderful cakes before you begin your interrogation.”

Javert looked at him with alarm, but Cosette was gentle with him for the rest of the visit and no one disgraced themselves. Javert blushed when Cosette saw him off with a kiss on his cheek and retired to bed soon after they returned home but he seemed happy enough, so Valjean did not worry for him. Anything more than a brief moment spent in company was a lot to ask of him but he had managed well. Late that evening, almost when he was thinking or retiring himself, an urchin knocked on the door with a note from the big house. He read it carefully, as he read anything from her, and a warmth filled his belly so that he went to bed happier than he had felt since that night in June.

_Dearest Papa,_

_How wonderful it was to see you today, and to meet your friend. Monsieur Javert seems a very affable man, nothing at all like the prickly fellow you warned me about. I think perhaps he is a little shy, and rather anxious, but those are no faults with which a man can be condemned. You make a fine pair; did you know you quite follow his every move, and he yours? I am so very pleased that you have found such a good friend and companion for your old age, Papa. It makes me quite relieved to know that you are not alone._

_Do not be too long in bringing Monsieur Javert to visit again; I am quite anxious to know him better._

_Your darling,  
Cosette._


	6. Matthew 18:20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes and the times, they are a'changin

The end of November went out on a tide of Madesmoiselle Austen’s writings, confined as they were to the house by snow and a lack of work to be done in the garden. Sometimes Javert could be persuaded to step out and walk a little way, and they visited Cosette twice more, but mostly he was content to be in the house and Valjean could hardly stand to be more than a pace or two away from him. On several occasions, always late into the night, Javert had fixed him with such a look that Valjean had been sure he was going to say something of importance. He would wait, listening to the sound of his heart hammering in his ears, so loud he was sure he would miss whatever Javert was about to reveal. Then the moment would pass and the other man would simply turn away, or smile that small, forced smile he had, and make some comment on the warmth of the room or the howl of the wind.

He was driving Valjean to madness, and in the deepest part of himself, he feared the test may not have even properly begun.

It was Toussaint who first mentioned Christmas, when she arrived one morning with a holly wreath to hang on the door. Cosette had always been more concerned with celebrating the season than he, but he had delighted in indulging her little whims and practices. Neither of them had ever forgotten that it was Christmas when he had saved her from the Thenardiers and, much to his delight, someone else had not forgotten it either.

“This season must have great importance to you,” Javert said, summoned to view the placing of the wreath on the front door, “You found your Cosette at this time of year, did you not?”

“I did,” Valjean nodded, “I am surprised you would remember.”

“I am hardly likely to forget it,” Javert countered, eying the wreath critically and reaching out to adjust an errant sprig of holly, “That was the second time I lost track of where you were.”

Valjean allowed himself a small smile and, spotting another untidy stem, reached to move it. Javert must have seen it at the same time, because their hands met above it. Valjean did not pull back, holding his breath, and it was a second or two before he realised that Javert was not going to flinch away either. Indeed, Javert had taken his hand and held it as carefully as he held Cosette’s fine china. A finger, blunt but soft, traced a scar on Valjean’s thumb and he could not fight the gooseflesh that sprung up on his arms.

“Of course,” Javert murmured absently, “If I knew you then how I know you now, I would not have lost you at the Paris gate. I would have gone straight to the convent and waited. You would have come to me.”

Valjean could not think beyond the warm hand grasping his, but he did not miss the curious look that Javert directed to him. He could almost have laughed; of all the places, Javert had chosen the doorstep.

“I have never celebrated Christmas. Perhaps, if you were so inclined, you would allow me to accompany you to your church. I would like to see for myself.”

By the time his sluggish mind had understood the words, Javert had dropped his hand and was looking at him expectantly.

“O-of course,” Valjean forced out, “I would be delighted. I will arrange it as soon as a suitable service is scheduled.”

Javert nodded, shy again so quickly that Valjean wondered if he had imagined the exchange. It was only the tingle of the smooth pink scar on his hand that convinced him anything had happened at all. As Javert turned to go back inside, Valjean bit his thumb as hard as he could bear; he would be no good for anything if the tingle lasted to distract him the rest of the day. As it was, he worked to put a little more distance between himself and Javert. He had plans to make, and his mind could not be busy with other things, no matter how enjoyable they may be.

Cosette, who turned out to be the instigator behind Toussaint providing the wreath, saw fit to send them much in the way of Christmas fare in the next few days. Javert tolerated it all with a kind of bemused interest, although he did draw the line at a wreath for his chamber door.  
On Saturday, Cosette herself arrived, with Marius in tow. Valjean was delighted and kissed her forehead, craning to see where Marius waited in the coach.

“Why does he not come?”

“I wanted to be sure Monsieur Javert would not mind his presence. I know how anxious he can be. Marius is happy to wait if it is too much.”  
Such a thoughtful child! Valjean kissed her again. She was so much more sensitive than he would ever be.

“I do not mind, madam,” said a voice behind them, “Please, bring him in.”

As Cosette hurried back to fetch Marius, Javert came to stand at the door and his fumbling fingers clutched at Valjean’s cuff.

“This boy could be the end of me.”

“He will not. He is a good soul.”

Valjean was right, for although Marius did double take and look hard at Javert, he held out his hand and seemed to, at least for now, accept the story of their previous friendship. Javert was coiled, ready to flee, but Valjean trusted his son-in-law’s manners and dignity. There would be questions. They would not come, however, in front of Javert.

“I came to help you set up the stable,” Cosette breezed, “I have been telling Marius about it for weeks now!”

The ‘stable’ was duly fetched from the back of the cupboard in Javert’s chamber and brought to the library with great ceremony. It was a Nativity scene, with all the characters and animals carved by Valjean during their years in the convent. It was not the prettiest of scenes but it was humbly made and honestly loved, and that was all that mattered.  
Cosette took out each figure from their paper nest and held it for Marius to admire. Valjean busied himself with putting together the stable itself, ready to be populated.

“You made this?” Javert asked, peering over his shoulder, “All of it?”

“I did. Cosette helped to paint the figures.”

Javert disappeared soon after, but Valjean did not fret. He would not have gone far. A few moments later he returned, with a handful of clean straw he must have liberated from the chickens in the garden.

“A stable needs straw, does it not?”

Cosette beamed as Javert carefully laid the straw on the floor of the stable, blushing when he realised she was smiling at him so.

“Papa, why did we never think of doing that? How pleased I am Monsieur Javert has more of a brain than we do!”

Valjean chuckled, half an eye on Cosette and Marius as they placed the figures in the stable, under her strict instruction of course. With his other eye, he watched Javert, who had retreated to his armchair but who also observed the young people intently.

By the time Cosette and Marius took their leave, Valjean knew which service he would take Javert to see. A wooden Nativity was fine enough, but a real one was even better. 

He did not tell Javert of his plan; the surprise would be part of the charm, if he ever got him to the church. He still was not convinced that Javert would not balk at the last minute; he may not have given his faith the attention it deserved, but he would know well enough the crowd of people who would greet him on his arrival.

Valjean confided his worries in Toussaint, who by some kind of accident really, by virtue of attending Javert when Valjean could not, was the only other person who could truly claim to have some knowledge of his character. She listened well, as she always did, as Valjean filled her with his concerns.

“I think you yourself should have a little more faith, monsieur. I do not think Monsieur Javert would have asked to join you if he did not know for certain what he faced. He is a cautious man, do you not agree?”

She was right, of course, and he try to not allow the whispering doubts of his mind to overtake his true purpose. Javert was almost saved, and Valjean could not stand in the way of that.

The children of the convent, the urchins and the orphans who lived under its protection, were every year taken to Valjean’s church to perform a Nativity for the congregation. Father Hugo had begun the tradition with the then priest of the convent, Father Juan, a Spaniard who had long made Paris his home. Léo and the new convent priest, Father Róbert, had not only continued it, but allowed it to flourish. Many of the parishioners agreed it was the crowning glory of their little church’s year. It always took place a week before Christmas, and with Cosette occupied elsewhere, Valjean had decided not to attend this year. 

Now he would use it to convince Javert of all he needed him to know. He told him the night they would be going out, but nothing more. The less he knew, the better.

As darkness fell on that Thursday evening, Valjean emerged from dressing to find Javert already waiting at the door. He was wearing the red ensemble again and, helpless, Valjean allowed his eyes to take in the fine cut of the waistcoat and the way it lay against Javert’s hips. The tailor, whoever he was, would have all of their business from now on.

“You will need your scarf,” Valjean said, “It is much colder than you imagine.”

Javert drew it down from the hook and wound it around his neck, struggling to make it lay neat with the new pair of gloves that Valjean had purchased for him on his hands. Laughing, Valjean reached up and corrected it for him and Javert did not shy away, once again. Rather, he smiled and patted Valjean’s hand.

They made it to the church in good time, but when Valjean walked straight past it, he heard the crunch of Javert’s boots in the snow stop, and turned to look for him.

“This is the place, is it not?”

“It is. Our destination, however, it is not.”

He said no more, just turned and carried on, listening for those familiar steps once more. With little hesitation, Javert followed. They were going to the convent, where this little tradition always began.

Most of the congregation had already arrived by the time they got to the gates, and true to form, many asked after Monsieur Fauchelevent’s companion. Valjean introduced ‘Monsieur Guy’ to each and every one, and Javert told them the same story; they were old friends, and he had come up from the south to spend his retirement in Paris. Until he found suitable rooms of his own, he was lodging with his friend. He told the story with such ease that Valjean wondered how he had ever been caught out in the lie at the barricade. He was not sure it was a question he would ever ask.

At the toll of seven, the doors to the convent swung open and the crowd fell silent. Father Róbert stepped out, clad in the costume of a wandering shepherd, crook in hand. From behind the gates, Valjean could hear Léo, hushing the chatter of little voices.

“Welcome, my children, to a traveller’s tale, the story of the most important babe to ever be. We begin our account in Nazareth, where the great Gabriel himself descends from the heavens to proclaim his joyous news.”

Valjean felt Javert shift at his side as a girl, dressed as the Virgin, knelt at the feet of a boy a little older, who wore a white gown and gold upon his brow. Little children sang as Gabriel told Mary she would have a miraculous babe, who would be the Son of God. The singers, also in white, held candles that lit their faces, scrubbed clean until they glowed in the light. The leather of Javert’s gloves crunched as he clutched at his lapels; anything, Valjean thought, to anchor himself.

When Mary and Joseph set off for Bethlehem, surrounded by the glowing choir of tiny angels. Father Léo emerged from the gate and ushered them along, whilst Róbert led the procession back down the street and towards the church. Léo did not see them then, intent on his task, but at the door of the church he stopped to ensure all of the watchers had entered, and his smile grew warm as he realised who the tall and sombre looking man was accompanying. 

“Monsieur,” he murmured, taking Javert’s hand and shaking it firmly, “You are most welcome.”

Javert hesitated on the threshold, rocking on his heels, before he closed his eyes and stepped forwards. He did not move until Valjean was at his side once more. Taking his elbow, Valjean steered them to some empty seats.

Javert was here. He was really here.


	7. Timothy 4:7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the exile comes to an end.

Mindful of Javert’s nerves, Valjean chose them a seat much further back than he would normally take for himself. Léo pulled the great wooden doors shut against the cold, and if Javert twitched a little at the sound, his expression gave little away. Instead he watched the children with the kind of rapt attention that Valjean had not seen from him for many months.

Gabriel and his angels, still clutching their candles, had arranged themselves beneath the single stained glass window that the church possessed. The irony had never been lost on Valjean that this story of such hope took place under an image of Christ’s crucifixion. God was all, in the end. There was little else. With the rest of the candles in the little church extinguished, the congregation sat in almost darkness, and the glow that surrounded the angels was only made brighter.

“In Bethlehem, no shelter could be found, save for the stable of the last kindly innkeeper,” Father Róbert spoke in a soft voice that carried through the echoing spaces, “And they took it gladly, for Mary knew what miracle would take place that night.”

Mary and Joseph, youngsters of perhaps eleven or twelve, settled themselves at the ‘manger’, a simple thing that Monsieur Fauchelevent had made for Father Juan so many years ago. Valjean remembered how proud his friend had been to cut and shape the wood, how glad he was to help.

“Why, Ultime,” he had said, as Valjean cleaned a cut he had given himself on the rough boards, “I feel as though I am building something for the Christ child himself. It matters not to me that the child should be only a doll; every drop of blood I spill, I do gladly.”

His old friend’s love for his faith had come late to him in his life, and it was his example that allowed Valjean to hope so much. He did not expect Javert to adopt piety so deeply as Fauchelevent had, but even a little would be enough to help him battle his own darkness.

“And so the babe was born. The babe who would be king of kings, Saviour of Mankind, Light of the World.”

Mary, her youthful face flushed with pride, placed a carefully wrapped doll in the manger and the little angels gathered around. When the strains of a violin began and the children began to sing, quiet and pure, Valjean felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He spare a glance at Javert, who had his fists clenched so hard upon his knees that his knuckles were white, and his dark brow was low. Valjean knew the violin was being played by Sister Monique, the convent music teacher, but to someone who did not know, the hauntingly tremulous sounds could have been coming from the heavens themselves. As the voices rose to a high note, a quake went through Javert so violently that Valjean felt it go through himself as well. He reached out and laid a hand on Javert’s knee. Javert’s hand, larger than his, gripped him like a rope thrown to a drowning man.

The story was not yet over; Gabriel walked slowly down the aisle, lighting candles along its length until the way from the front doors to the manger was bright and warm. Father Léo opened the doors once more to admit the shepherds, three little boys who led lambs up towards the gathering at the front. The lambs danced and bleated on their ropes, looking for all the world as though they were overjoyed to be there. The congregation murmured appreciatively; the service had never yet included live animals. Clutching at their charges, the shepherds knelt before the manger and as they joined in the singing, Gabriel moved among them, handing them candles and laying his hands on their heads. His face, so fair and round, with golden hair that fell into curls, could so easily have belonged to the angel himself.

“The shepherds knelt in adoration of their new king and knew they would never have reason to despair ever again, for he had come to take away their hurts and hold them safe to his breast ever more.”

The words were the same that he heard every year but still they brought tears to Valjean’s eyes. He wiped at his face with his free hand and looked again at his companion.

Javert was weeping.

He was not loud in doing so; indeed, the tears that rolled down his face were silent and he did not move to brush them away. Perhaps he felt Valjean’s eyes on him, because he closed his eyes and fought to still his trembling lip. Valjean ached to reach out with his free hand and touch him, but he did not. All he did was to rub his thumb along Javert’s forefinger, too gently because Javert had to choke back a sob and stilled his thumb with his other hand pressed on their already joined hands. He shook his head, and Valjean understood.

The last players were the three kings, splendidly dressed and carrying beautiful gilded boxes. Like the shepherds before them, they knelt, and Gabriel blessed them with his hands.

“The kings brought fine gifts for the child, gifts that were the best they could give, but they knew were still not enough for the miracle babe. And they cried, because the boy was to be their new king and all their struggles were ended. They need never be afraid again.”

The children climbed to their feet and a rousing chorus raised their voices to the roof. Valjean had stopped watching them though. Javert’s eyes had strayed up to the window, the image of Christ on his cross, dying to absolve the sins of men, a man who was only a little older than the boys who had died on the barricade on that hot June day. As an ending, Gabriel picked up the swaddled babe and held it above his head as the rest of the children, including the angels, went to their knees once more. Then they froze and Father Róbert took to his pulpit.

“And the child grew to be a carpenter, just as his father was a carpenter, and when he was old enough he took his place as the Son of God, the Redeemer, the Lord of the Light, and he took the world and mankind in his arms, to hold and protect for all time, and no one who believed in him was ever fearful or felt any pain, for he was always there to catch them when they fell.”

The service ended with a hymn and prayers although Valjean, his shoulder pressed against Javert’s as they knelt, noticed that Javert could not get the words to either from his mouth. When the prayers were over and the children applauded, everyone stood except for Javert, who remained his knees, eyes squeezed closed and hands clasped before him. Heart swelling, Valjean slipped from the pew and jealously guarded him from interruption or query.

“Your friend came,” whispered a quiet voice, and Léo appeared from wherever he had been lurking, a beaming smile on his youthful face, “You took my advice, I think.”

“I did. I know not what he prays for now, but I will wait for him, as long as it takes.”

“Well, Monsieur Fauchelevent, it looks to me as though it does not much matter what he is praying for, as long as he is,” Léo said, but would hazard no guess, nor say more when pressed, except for “I am sure you will know soon enough.”

The hour was late and Valjean watched as Léo moved to help Father Róbert and Sister Monique herd their young charges to the door ready to go home to the convent. Gabriel, his robe removed and folded over his arm, slowed as he walked down the aisle and peered over Valjean’s shoulder at the still kneeling Javert. From the look on his face, Valjean already knew what was coming.

“Heard he’d jumped off a bridge,” the boy said in a low voice, the young brow that had been so beautiful only moments before wrinkled in disgust, “Too good to be true, I said.”

Javert did not move and Valjean was thankful for it; he took Gabriel’s arm and marched him away to a quiet corner. 

“What price for your silence, boy?”

“What is it worth to you, old man?”

The boy was smirking, his voice full of mirth. Sighing, Valjean reached for his purse and took out all he had, thirty francs. It was an enormous sum, too much really, but he would not have his new life ruined by a child with a grudge.

“All I have.”

The boy’s eyes widened as the notes were pressed into his hands and he glanced back at Javert. He shook his head.

“I’m not a thief, monsieur. Give me five, and five more to give to the sister for the little ones.”

The boy hurried away as Valjean slipped his purse back into his coat. As the children left, the church fell almost silent, save for the rustling of flickering candles and the soft patter of rain on the roof. In the corner of his eye, he saw Javert climb to his feet, pulling himself up with the pew in front of him. He made his way slowly to Valjean, eyes downcast.

“I would like to go home now,” he said, “If it pleases you.”

“Of course. I am afraid we will have to walk in the rain.”

“I do not mind. I have patrolled often in weather like this.”

The rain was heavier than even Valjean had thought it was, but Javert strode out with such purpose that it was all Valjean could do to stay at his side. It was only when they turned off the street and into the next, and Javert slowed, that Valjean realised they had been running away.

They walked in silence, their boots slipping in the water that pooled on top of the already melting snow. Valjean could feel it soaking into the back of his trousers and running down his neck into his coat. Such weather always caused him discomfort; his accursed limp slowed him and Javert walked on until he came to realise he had lost his companion. As he came back, Valjean could see he was just as wet, and pale with it. He had been ill too recently to be out in weather like this.

“Go on ahead,” Valjean waved his hand, “Do not wait for me.”

“If you must say only such foolish things, do not speak at all.”

Javert stepped close to his side and offered his arm.

“Lean on me. We both know I have leaned on you enough these past months.”

Valjean did not answer. He could not, around the lump in his throat.

At the house, Toussaint had left fires burning in the library and the kitchen, ready for their return. Javert manhandled him into the library and helped him from his coat, before he shrugged off his own and disappeared upstairs. Weary, he sank into a chair and took off his boots, as Javert came crashing back into the room, his arms full of dry clothes. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees in front of the chair and his hands were halfway through unbuttoning Valjean’s waistcoat before he seemed to realise what he was doing. He jerked back and his eyes drifted upwards to meet Valjean’s. For his part, Valjean was frozen, unable to even move his hands to stay Javert.

“F-forgive me,” Javert mumbled, falling backwards, catching himself on his hands, “I did not think. I only-”

Valjean did not know what was going to happen if he caught Javert before he could move away, back to his self-imposed exile, the unbearable distance he put between them. Valjean did not know it, but he did not care. He did not have time to care.

He leaned forwards and yanked Javert upwards, his strength returning to him in his panic, the blind panic that this was a moment he was going to regret if he did not do…something. Anything. Something.

The kiss surprised him as much as it surprised Javert, who felt for one terrible second like he was going to pull away. Valjean clutched his shirt fiercely and Javert was forced to shuffle forwards on his knees, until he rested between Valjean’s legs.

Valjean’s face was burning but he had come too far now. There was a groan from somewhere, and a hand fisted in his hair, and he realised it was Javert who pushed himself higher on his knees and pressed Valjean’s back against the chair. When a tentative flick of Javert’s tongue wetted his lips, Valjean was all too willing to open his mouth. Javert’s mouth was warm and soft, so much softer than his near constant scowl would suggest. The hard lines of his body were soft too, as Valjean dared to run his hands up Javert’s back and neck, before he tangled his fingers in the damp queue.

Javert groaned again at the gentle tug on his hair and moved, pressing his face into Valjean’s neck. He did not move for a long moment, then traced his lips slowly up the burning skin and his mouth, hot and wet, lay just so over Valjean’s pulse until Valjean feared he might lose control of himself at a singular touch of his hand. At the same moment, a shiver went through him and he remembered vaguely that the both of them were still dressed in wet clothes.

The shiver jarred something in Javert because he backed away, a look of horror on his face.

“My God, Jean. You’re cold and here I am – my apologies! Forgive me.”

His hands shook a little and his face was nearly purple, but he was more assured now as he reached for the buttons on Valjean’s waistcoat. His hands were gentle, so gentle that Valjean thought he would have cried had his blood not still been thundering through his veins. Instead he sat, boneless and limp, as Javert pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders and unknotted the cravat. He managed to sit up just enough so Javert could tug his shirt off over his head. He remembered about the tattoo, and the scars, a fraction of a second too late and could only close his eyes against the sharp intake of breath. Tender fingers traced over the numbers and when a kiss was pressed to them too, he found that he could cry after all.

“I’m sorry,” Javert whispered, as he slipped Valjean’s nightshirt over his head, “I am so very sorry.”

“It is not your fault. It never has been.”

Somehow, and he was not sure how, Valjean managed to remove his trousers before he collapsed once more onto the sofa, by which time Javert had donned his own nightshirt and sat tentatively besides him. The fire crackled merrily and Valjean dared to snake out a hand and hold Javert’s once more between his own.

“You wept at the church. Was it too much?”

“I do not know. I have not cried for so long, I did not know that I still could.”

What possible answer could there be to such a statement? An image once more of that copper haired boy, too quickly grown, flashed before his eyes and he squeezed Javert’s hand.

“You prayed. What did you pray for?”

“It was not a prayer,” Javert snapped and then his head fell forwards and he sighed, “I do not mean to be sharp. Only – I was thinking.”

“Of what?”

“Of you, Jean Valjean. Of you, of course. I find – I find there is little else on my mind these days.”

His voice was low, so low, Valjean strained to hear him. Had his mission failed? He had tried his best but it was not enough, and –

“My maker and I have much to learn of one another,” Javert continued, “And I will learn, or try to. But until I do, there is only you. I have been searching and searching, but you, who I once so wronged, are all I find.”

When Valjean did not answer, Javert turned to him with hooded eyes and a desperate curl of his lip.

“Please tell me I am not alone in this, Jean,” he said thickly.

“Oh Javert,” Valjean laughed, and once he had begun he could not stop, as it rushed from him all at once, “Do you believe I would have kissed you so if I – if you were not what I wanted?”

“I will mend what I have with the Lord, Jean, because you wish for me to, and if he was anywhere tonight then I must believe he was there with those children,” Javert leaned into him, “But if he is merciful as you say, he will have left us at the door, because I want only to be alone with you.”

One of them, and later Valjean could not say which, climbed from the comfort of the sofa and pulled the other to their feet. He suspected it was himself, because Javert seemed to have used every ounce of courage he possessed in making his confession and surely he would not have been so presumptuous as to lead them to the door of Valjean’s own chamber.

“Please,” Valjean said, as he pushed the door open, battling for words he did not possess, “Stay with me tonight. We do not- that is, I would only like to have you close.”

Javert opened his mouth to protest, so Valjean left the door ajar and went inside, preparing for the other man to flee but allowing himself to hope he would not. The door slammed and he heard the breaths before he felt the arms wrap around him, as Javert pressed himself to his back and brushed his nose against Valjean’s ear. Sparks shot through him; he did not know he was sensitive there. No one had ever touched him to find it out. And now it was Javert! Javert’s arms, Javert’s nose, Javert’s touch. If it was not so absurd, he would laugh.

“Come,” he murmured, “Let us sleep. It has been a long day, has it not?”

He settled into bed and Javert, shy once more, did not immediately follow. Once he was settled, Javert slipped beneath the blankets and, slowly, moved closer under the cover of darkness until he had one arm wrapped around Valjean and pulled him back against his chest. It was chaste enough but Valjean had to fight to calm every nerve in his body. He idly ran a fingertip over the soft hair on Javert’s arm.

“Javert?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you happy?”

“Are _you_ ?”

“More than I have ever been, I think.”

“Then yes. You do not know what I would do for you, Jean Valjean.”

In the moments before sleep took him, as he felt Javert go limp and his breathing slow, Valjean thought on what Father Léo had said, about how loving the man would bring him to God. If that was truly the path to take, he had done more than enough.

It was only time now.

And they had more than enough of that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of the people who have read, kudosed and commented :D This story is almost single-handedly responsible for breaking what was a very difficult drought for me, so I am particularly fond of it. 
> 
> Special thanks once more to Vana who holds my hand and encourages me through it all. Love you, bubs <3

**Author's Note:**

> And yes, the chapter titles do mean something.


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